


this unbreakable trust

by kickedshins



Category: Archive 81 (Podcast)
Genre: Could Be Canon, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Trust, cannot believe they didn't bed-share in canon that was a CRIME, takes place during episode 3 of lotd when they're at the car repair shop for 2 weeks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickedshins/pseuds/kickedshins
Summary: "She likes us.”Nicholas laughs. “Yeah, I think she might. Bit of a funny way of showing it, but yes, I think she’s warming up to us.”“Okay, hypocrite.”Nicholas puts one fist on his hip, turning around to fully face Static Man. He leans forward over his cane, trying to be six feet and one inch of an imposing presence, despite the fact that Static Man remains a head taller than him. “Whatever do you mean by that?”Static Man laughs, a tuning fork hit at just the right spot. “I mean that you’re, like, totally the same way. Fuckin’ porcupine with a heart of gold.”“Huh,” Nicholas says, because two and a half years ago, he would never have envisioned himself with spikes. Chris was the one with armor; Chris was the one with a spine of steel that burst, bloodied, out from under her skin. But things have changed now, and with Nicholas’s amassing of magic comes an amassing of swords, too, he supposes. “I suppose you’re right.”orMissing scenes during Nicholas and Static Man's time at the car repair shop.
Relationships: Static Man/Nicholas Waters, The Clerk & Static Man & Nicholas Waters
Comments: 29
Kudos: 150





	this unbreakable trust

**Author's Note:**

> gd i rly wrote 10k words of slice of life fluff huh

Nicholas’s back hates him. Nicholas’s back hates him, and he hates his back, and he really hates sleeping in the backseat of his car. It’s only been a few nights of living like this, but he didn’t spend a ridiculously long time getting a degree to not be smart enough to know that this is not a tenable course of action.

He drags himself into the kitchen on the fifth day of living at Moody’s. The radio, always on, had woken him up at what felt like six in the morning. There’s not really any way of knowing in the Blacktop, though. 

“You look like shit,” the Clerk says.

“Good morning to you, too,” he groans, stumbling around like a zombie. He’s not great before coffee, a habit impressed into him from years of staying up far too late and going down far too many only-tangentially-related-to-important research rabbit holes. His glasses are seconds away from falling off of his nose. The Clerk snorts at him as he winces while pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Good night’s sleep?” she says.

“No. What time is it?”

  
“Time has no meaning,” she says, for what must be the tenth time in the past twenty-four hours, “in the magical fantasy realm of wonder and whimsy.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Quarter to seven,” she relents. “Breakfast?”

“Pancakes, if you don’t mind. Can we do blueberry?”

The Clerk lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Do not make me answer that.”

“Right. Anything’s possible. Blueberries are nothing compared to the vast power of the Blacktop. Or something.”

“Or something,” the Clerk says, rubbing her temples.

“Or something!” comes Static Man’s voice. He bursts through the ceiling with a pop and a spark, and Nicholas feels himself become just a bit more awake. “I dunno why we’re all saying  _ or something _ . I just have FOMO.”

“Good morning,” Nicholas says. “How was your rest?”

“Oh, you know.” Static Man does something like a shrug, static sloughing off of him in a ripple of rainbow and gray. “It was fine. I mean, I don’t really need to sleep much, and I’m sorta teasing death with the whole water bed thing, considering that my body is, like, the concept of electricity, or something, and also because I’m a swirling vortex of teeth, and sometimes I can’t control where the sharp bits go, but I didn’t puncture the bed, and also I’m pretty sure I can’t actually die unless there’s some magical fuckery involved, so it’s whatever. Haven’t kicked yet! Hell yeah!” 

He holds up a not-hand. After a moment’s consideration and a heavy eye roll from the Clerk, Nicholas taps it lightly with his own palm.

“So!” Static Man claps his not-hands together with an electric crack. “Ms. The Clerk.”

“Just call me Clerk. If you have to talk to me at all.”

Static Man ignores her aggression and barrels on forwards. “How’s the sitch with the car? Are we lookin’ more on the copacetic side of things or the flaming disaster side of things?”

“You know what the word copacetic means?” The Clerk sounds genuinely impressed.

“Hey, lady, I’m not an idiot. I’m not a French folktales Ph.D. level nerdfest like this guy over here—” he jabs a not-thumb in Nicholas’s direction “—but I got a good head on my shoulders. Like, metaphorically, I mean.” 

He spins towards Nicholas. “Dude. Do you think I can pop off my head? Not like I have a spine to break, or anything.”

“I don’t think you should try it,” Nicholas advises. “Just in case.” He stretches, hissing out of his teeth as he twists his neck to the left. “Shit. My  _ body _ .”

“Aren’t you… I don’t know. Twenty-three? About twenty-three?” The Clerk starts ladling out perfectly round circles of pancake batter onto something that looks like a flimsy sheet of cellophane. As the batter hits what’s passing for a pan, small blueberries bloom into existence. “You really shouldn’t have pains yet.”

“Nah, twenty-three?” Static Man laughs, and it sounds like water hitting a hot pan. “He’s  _ thirty _ -three. Ish.”

“Twenty-nine,” Nicholas says. “I have a baby face and a cane. The whole picture is hard to fit into some sort of congruent narrative.”

“Yeah, and you talk like you’re eighty.”

“Alright, eternal frat boy. You haven’t been eighteen in decently over a decade, so perhaps you could stop acting like you’re still that young.” Nicholas takes a sip of his coffee. It’s pretty awful, and he didn’t put any milk or sugar in it, so that doesn’t make it go down any easier. His grimace shifts into a smile at the not-middle-fingers that Static Man throws up at him. Four or five of them in total. It’s a bit hard to tell, as it’s a bit hard to look at Static Man straight on for an extended period of time.

“You two are cute,” the Clerk says. Nicholas can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“We’re not, like, a  _ thing _ , or anything, if that’s what you’re—”

  
“No, I know,” the Clerk laughs. There’s something to the tone of her voice that Nicholas can’t quite place, but that reminds him, hollowly, of Christine. “Still. Bickering about your damn ages. It doesn’t take a lot to say _hi, my name is Clerk, and I’m probably around thirty, but it’s impossible to know, because I sold my birthday back in the real world, and here in the Blacktop, years don’t function the same way._ ”

“I mean,” Static Man says. “That was, like, at least four more words than I said, so—”

She flicks the ladle towards him. Batter flies up, hitting Nicholas on the chin. Some of it makes its way towards Static Man, her intended target, but the little that does is easily devoured out of thin air by a whirlwind of glinting white canines and static not-tongues.

Nicholas takes another long sip of his coffee and tries not to let his face screw up in disgust at its bitterness. He’s always been more partial to tea, but there’s not a lot of that in Father’s twisted idea of the perfect little Americana dream.

“Also,” Static Man says defensively, pulling out a chair. “I age weird, too.” He spins the chair around so that the back is facing forwards and straddles it, one not-foot tapping a one-two beat just inches away from Nicholas’s beat-up sneakers. “So maybe I’m still eighteen.”

“You are  _ not  _ still eighteen,” Nicholas says emphatically. “You were older than that when you—”

“Fucked myself six ways to the concept of a Sunday that doesn’t really exist any longer?”

Nicholas waves a hand concessively. “Sure.”

“Well, then. I’ll be twenty-nine, too. When I have a body again. I mean, I spent so long not actually existing… it’s hard to keep track of my birthday, or if I missed it one year, or whatever, you know?” His voice is upbeat, and his not-foot doesn’t cease its drumbeat, but Nicholas knows the difference between a thunderstorm and a sunshower, and right now, Static Man’s is clocking in at lightning strike.

“Whatever feels right,” Nicholas says. He thinks about reaching out to place a comforting hand on his not-arm. He’s not caffeinated enough for the buzz that thrums under his skin whenever Static Man brushes against him, though, so he holds back.

It’s fine, because the moment passes quickly. Static Man’s fast-paced like that. “Dude,” he says, not-foot picking up speed, not-face brightening. “I’ll probably have an actual dick for the first time. That’s fuckin’ sick. Cannot  _ wait  _ to pee standing up. Also fu—”

Nicholas groans. “Seriously? Seriously? You’re going to bring up the dick situation before I’ve even had my breakfast? Seriously?”

The Clerk lets out a low-pitched  _ ha _ . “Academics and their ivory towers. And, no, do not say anything about pots and kettles or stones and glass houses.” She brings over the plate of pancakes, dropping it unceremoniously in front of Nicholas and Static Man, before drawing up a chair for herself. “Syrup’s in the fridge if you want it.”

“Do you not like syrup?” Static Man asks, aghast.  
“I do not.”

“That’s… I mean, I have to agree with Static Man. That’s a little bit crazy.”

“Okay,” the Clerk says. She spears a pancake on a fork. Something that looks frighteningly like blood flows out of a blueberry that’s been punctured by one of its tines. “The berries give it enough moisture.”

“Yeah, but do you eat dry pancakes even when they’re berryless?” Static Man talks while he eats, something that’s easy to accomplish since he has as many not-mouths as he wants to have. The food tears itself up violently into shards of beige and blue, smaller and smaller and smaller tornadoes forming around his too-sharp teeth until it’s all so tiny to make out.

“I usually don’t eat in general, remember? But when I do, yes. I eat dry pancakes.”

“Jesus. Boring life you live. Mundane as shit,” Static Man jokes. Nicholas, despite himself, stifles a laugh.

“Anyone who thinks you’re funny is deluded beyond the point of sanity,” the Clerk says, but Nicholas is pretty sure she means it endearingly. “Pass me the water, will you?”

Static Man pushes it over. After it stops whirlpooling in the pitcher, the Clerk pours herself a glass. The water ripples in the early morning light, refracting colors that Nicholas doesn’t yet have names for. 

It frustrates him, that he doesn’t know what to call them. Everything about the Blacktop frustrates him. He wants to be able to point to a bird and know it’s a bird; he wants to take a left turn and not end up going right. It’s more manageable at a Moody’s Family Friendly fill-in-the-blank, a mostly stagnant place, and it’s more manageable with Static Man to ground him. Still, the sheer amount of unknown variables make Nicholas’s head spin. He’s used to two plus two equalling four. He’s used to being able to force it to equal five, given the proper ritual. Here, though, it’s more likely that the sum ends up being an exponential equation heading ever upwards towards a place of power that Nicholas should not try to reach.

He is not his father. He is not a good man, no, but he is not his father.

“So,” Static Man says. The sound of his not-palms rubbing together drags Nicholas from his moralistic musings. “What’s on the menu for today?”

“Pancakes,” Nicholas says, pointing to the plate in front of them.

“I meant, like, schedule-wise, but thank you for enlightening me, Mr. Waters, sir.”

“Jesus,” the Clerk says. “Jesus  _ Christ _ . This is why I work alone.”

“Okay, Batman ass motherfucker,” Static Man says. He kicks his not-legs backward and forward in time to some song or another that he probably can’t get out of his head. He has a habit of humming without realizing it. Nicholas thinks it’s probably nice for Static Man to have consistent proof that he exists, and annoying the living daylights out of everyone around with half-terrible renditions of  _ Mr. Brightside  _ seem to do the trick. He can’t exactly fault Static Man for it, though. He can’t imagine going years only existing when other people wanted you to serve them.

“You’re a fake nerd,” Nicholas argues. “Batman is notoriously famous for his Robins.”

Static Man topples out of his chair and hits the ground sort-of-standing. He draws himself up to an iteration of his full height, which is deeply unthreatening due to how skinny it is. Nicholas supposes that the first law of thermodynamics still applies, which, sure. Some rules of physics bind Static Man and some don’t. That’s just the way these things go. Nicholas knows he’ll probably never make peace with the blatant fact that he’ll never truly understand all of the workings and inner mechanisms of this universe, let alone any other universes, but he’s getting better at attempting to accept that.

“First of all,” Static Man says, altering his voice so that it booms. Nicholas, unimpressed, lets his hair get blown back by the wave of sonic force that comes flying at his face. “I am not a nerd.”

“Sure,” Nicholas says. “And the fifteen minutes you spent explaining the plot of  _ My Hero Academy _ meant…?”

“ _ Academia _ , Nicholas,” Static Man groans. He shifts back down into his regular height, a height that lands him about a head taller than Nicholas, even though he was apparently only five-eight as a person. Nicholas supposes that one of the upsides of becoming a monster made of static and teeth is gaining a foot or so of height. “ _ My Hero  _ fucking  _ Academia _ .”

Before Nicholas can retaliate, because it’s always more fun to bicker with Static Man than it is to let him win any argument, the Clerk says, “Clean.”  
“Beg your pardon?”

“Clean. You two are going to clean the dishes. I cooked your breakfast, and I’m going to fix your car, so you are going to clean my dishes.” She gets up and puts her chair away swiftly and quietly. 

“Sounds kosher to me,” Static Man, giving a not-grin. “Nicholas, you’re on washing, and I’ll dry.”

By the time Nicholas has made his way over to the sink, bad leg dragging behind him in a mix of early-morning aches and slept-in-the-back-of-a-car-five-nights-in-a-row aches, the Clerk’s already nearly out the door. She’s pulled her curly hair up into a big, messy knot, and it should have a few flyaways, but any strand that tries to drop finds itself being threaded back into her bun by a force that isn’t her hands and isn’t her hair and isn’t anything he can see. Nicholas supposes that if you spend long enough in the Blacktop, you don’t remain unchanged, no matter how hard you try to keep your head down.

As soon as the door is closed, Static Man shoots over to where Nicholas is standing. At such a close proximity, Nicholas can feel his hair stand on end, can feel it reaching towards Static Man. He can feel his heart beat just a little faster, which is ridiculous, because he should be used to the field of energy that Static Man casts about him at this point. Nicholas’s body and his mind are refusing to sync up, though, so he’s stuck with a cycle of  _ calm down calm down calm down  _ looping through his brain and a cycle of  _ touch him touch him touch him  _ looping through his fingertips. There’s something tempting about the pricks under his skin that arose any time Static Man elbowed him in the arm or flicked him on the back of his neck as they drove down the endless stretch of the Blacktop. There’s something tempting about the idea of how his mouth might feel set on fire.

If Christine were here, she’d laugh and call Nicholas a masochist, or maybe just look him right in the eye and tell him that he’s got a crush, and that he’s acting like he’s nine, not twenty-nine, and that he should just own up to it.

But, he thinks bitterly, Chris isn’t here. So he shoves that thought to the back of his brain, along with the fact that the Clerk certainly thinks there’s something between himself and Static Man, and along with the lilt of Static Man’s intonation when he said, just a few days ago, that he wasn’t sure if he’d met his romantic soulmate yet. He shoves it back to the place of his brain that wanted him to argue with Static Man about who got to sleep in the spare bed.

“Dude,” Static Man says. “She made us breakfast.”

“Yes.”

“She made us breakfast! She totally didn’t have to make us breakfast. She  _ likes  _ us.”

Nicholas laughs. “Yeah, I think she might. Bit of a funny way of showing it, but yes, I think she’s warming up to us.”

“Okay, hypocrite.”

Nicholas puts one fist on his hip, turning around to fully face Static Man. He leans forward over his cane, trying to be six feet and one inch of an imposing presence, despite the fact that Static Man remains a head taller than him. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

Static Man laughs, a tuning fork hit at just the right spot. “I mean that you’re, like, totally the same way. Fuckin’ porcupine with a heart of gold.”

“Huh,” Nicholas says, because two and a half years ago, he would never have envisioned himself with spikes. Chris was the one with armor; Chris was the one with a spine of steel that burst, bloodied, out from under her skin. But things have changed now, and with Nicholas’s amassing of magic comes an amassing of swords, too, he supposes. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Yeah. Good thing I can’t get poked,” Static Man says, not-grinning lopsidedly. “Ha. Ha.”

“Sex joke? You’re making a sex joke based around the fact that you don’t have a physical form?”

“I’m making a sex joke based around the fact that I don’t have a physical form,” Static Man says, nodding solemnly. “Glad you got it, man. Proud of you. One step closer to unrepressing you.”

“I’m not repressed!” Nicholas squawks, hand that isn’t resting on his cane flying up defensively. “I’ve had multiple boyfriends. And I’ve had sex with most of them.”

“Wow, Nick, you make it sound so fun! Please, tell me more!” Static Man’s voice drips with glee and sarcasm. “Like, dude, imagine if I was like, no, I swear, I’ve sucked at least three dicks! There have been multiple instances upon which I’ve gotten pu—”

“Hey!” Nicholas swats at Static Man’s not-arm with a nearby dishtowel. “It’s  _ Nicholas _ , and you know that, Arthur.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Static Man grumbles. “No need to get all up in my shitty name choices because you have virgin vibes.”

“Okay, Chris and I once did a ritual, and we couldn’t use my blood beca– No, you know what? I’m not finishing that sentence. Stop  _ laughing _ ,” he demands, committing fully to throwing the towel at Static Man’s not-face.

Static Man doesn’t stop laughing. He doesn’t stop laughing, and the rumble and buzz of the cramped kitchen, warming with the rising sun, puts a feeling in the pit of Nicholas’s stomach that he’d rather not address. A magnetic pull, maybe, or the strain of a balloon about to pop.

“What do you wanna do today?” Static Man asks, after he’s calmed himself down. He doesn’t towel off the dishes. He just whips himself around them at a high enough velocity to whisk away all the water.

“I mean, there isn’t a lot to do. I might read. Or go through some edits on a few of my rituals. How about you?”

“Eh, probably just bug the hell outta you and the Clerk. Like you said. Not much to do. Gotta take small pleasures where I can, you know?”

“I’m glad you find bothering us amusing,” Nicholas says dryly. “How do you think we clean this?” He gestures to the thing the Clerk used as a pan.

“With water,” replies Static Man. The  _ you idiot  _ is heavily and affectionately implied.

Later, when what passes as night has fallen, when the ball of neon orange has sucked itself out of the cloudless sky, the Clerk calls him by his name.

“Nicholas,” she says, “pass the dumplings.”

He falters mid-bite. “Me?”

“Yes,” she says, dragging the word out so that it has more than one syllable. “You. Are there any other Nicholases here?”

“No. Uh, no,” he says, and he passes her the dumplings, and he does not mention the fact that this is the first time that she’s addressed him by name unprompted. He does not raise the idea that maybe the Blacktop only has as much omnipotence as she gives it, and maybe she doesn’t always need to keep her head down. He does not say,  _ hey, you don’t need to resign yourself to an eternity in my father’s hellscape. _ He says, “Pork or tofu?”

“Tofu. Thanks.”

Static Man, bless his heart, has markedly fewer reservations about pointing out the obvious. “You just called him Nicholas,” he says.

“Yeah. I did. We don’t need to make a big deal out of it.”

“We really don’t,” Nicholas agrees. The Clerk thanks him with an incline of her head.

“Uh, okay, sure. Whatever you say. But, like, you can’t take this back, The Clerk.” He waves a not-finger in her face. “Yes, I’m using your full name. It’s an  _ occasion _ . It merits it.”

“The… ‘The Clerk’ is not my full name. You know that, right? Right?”

He rolls his not-eyes. “Yeah, I fuckin’ know that. Jeez, what’s a guy gotta do to get a laugh around here?”  
“Eat dinner with two people who have different parameters for what constitutes humor than us?” Nicholas suggests.

“Lucky for you guys, those are on short supply at the moment.”

“Lucky indeed,” the Clerk says, deadpan.

“Ah-ah-ah. You called him Nicholas. We’re friends. You can’t take it back, Clerk. I know you tolerate us.”

“Us? I haven’t heard myself say your name yet, if that’s what makes you my friend,” the Clerk says, eyebrow quirked. Her lips are playing at a smile, and she’s got her chin in her palm. 

Static Man has that effect on people. It’s just really easy to like him. And Nicholas knows she isn’t his competition, or anything, because, despite the fact that Static Man could easily fall for her, Nicholas is pretty sure she’s not in the market for any sort of relationship at the time being, and also because there’s nothing to be competing for, but he can’t help his heart from seizing up. Just a little.

“We’re a package deal,” Static Man says proudly. “Befriend one, get his vassal free.”

And, yeah, there’s the rope around Nicholas’s heart drawing up an even tighter knot.

“ _ Vassal _ ,” the Clerk snorts. “I still can’t believe you did that. Willingly.”

“Aw, it wasn’t even a thing to think about. Easiest choice I ever made. Absolute no-brainer. I don’t even think I have an actual brain anymore, so that’s apt, I guess. But, yeah, do a ritual to finally get me a fuckin’ body, and the only thing I have to do for it—other than the whole quest shit that we’re embarking on right now—is to ritualistically bind myself to Nicholas Waters? No sweat. I’ve had a load of people worse than him giving me a ring on the old static phone.” 

Once again, Static Man flies over his past like it’s nothing, like the concept of his existence hinging on the needs of others hasn’t had an effect on him. Like it’s nothing to be nothing except for when others want you, like it’s nothing to be nothing except for when you’re being recorded. Like privacy and volition are concepts that have never really occurred to him. Like he doesn’t know they’re basic rights that he should have.

“Please, no need to be such a sycophant,” Nicholas says flatly. He really hopes there are no tremors in his voice to give away how he feels when he hears Static Man say his full name.

“I guess,” the Clerk says, her tone level to the point of near-breakage, “that I could understand that. Binding myself to someone. At least temporarily. If it got me out of here. If it was someone I trusted. If it was someone who trusted me.”

Nicholas doesn’t offer anything, because he knows if he does, she’ll say no on principle. But it sits there, unsaid, on the folding table. It sits there between two bowls of dumplings, between three plastic plates, between two cups of shimmering rainbow-tinted water, and between the conquering sorcerer, his vassal to his left, and a woman who might become the third person Nicholas truly have faith in to his right. It sits there, unsaid, and Nicholas wants to pocket this feeling, this unbreakable trust. He wants to share it with his sister. He wants to stand on the deck of the  _ Irons  _ and shout it to the City. He wants to press it in between the pages of his spellbook, and he wants to mold it into a cracked and bloodied obsidian bust.

He settles for asking Static Man to pass the pork dumplings.

Halfway through clearing the table, Nicholas twists his body left when his bad leg wants to go right, and he can’t hold back a rather undignified yelp.

In a flash, Static Man is right beside him. “Dude, you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright, but, if you don’t mind, will you help me over to the chair?”

“I’ll clean up the rest,” the Clerk offers. 

Nicholas thanks her and focuses on the hypnotic swipe of her dishcloth against the surface of the plates instead of focusing on the crackle that hums across his body as Static Man guides him back to the chair, one not-arm around Nicholas’s waist.

“You know,” Static Man murmurs, a thundercloud inches from the ground, a disaster seconds away from happening if Nicholas doesn’t focus on the sharp pain that comes from his cane digging into his palm, “you don’t need to keep saying  _ if you don’t mind _ .”

“I’m a polite person,” Nicholas says, and he hopes it comes out as a statement instead of as a question. “I say it to everyone.”

Static Man’s laugh hits Nicholas’s neck with a rush and a buzz. “You’ve killed people. Plural.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not polite.”  
“Paragon of goodness, man. Fuckin’ messiah type.”

“You’ve killed a lot more people than I have,” Nicholas argues.

“Semantics. And, yeah, I know you say it to everyone, but you especially say it to me. I know you’re not, like, exerting your power over me, or anything. I know that. You don’t need to keep clarifying it. I know you’d never do that to me.”

Static Man deposits Nicholas in the chair. Nicholas tries not to miss the feeling of Static Man’s not-hand on his hip. 

“I’m okay,” Nicholas says, voice raised so that the Clerk can hear it.

“What’d you do?” the Clerk asks, oblivious to the heat rising in Nicholas’s cheeks.

He rubs at the back of his neck, wincing. “I must have pulled something. Or slept wrong.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still sleeping in the car,” the Clerk says. 

“Well, Static Man called the bed…”  
“Jesus. Just both take the bed. Don’t tell me you have some weird boyish qualms about that,” she says, shaking her head.

“Oh, I totally don’t,” Static Man laughs. “Score for being socialized as a girl, hell yeah!”

Nicholas doesn’t really know how to respond that other than to say, “I don’t have a ton of experience with… sleepovers. I didn’t have a lot of friends when I was younger—”

  
“Shocker.”

  
“—and the two sleepovers I went to were hell because of the whole… gay thing. Where I felt weird about sleeping in the same room as them. Even though that’s ridiculous, obviously.”

  
“No, dude, I get you,” Static Man says. “It was like that for me before I came out. The second time, I mean. Guy-wise. And, like, obviously before that on the other side of things, but, yeah, same. Score for bisexuality!”

“You just keep racking up the scoreboard,” the Clerk muses.

“I am winning at the competition of life,” Static Man declares proudly.

Dishes finished, she walks over to the two of them. She’s not very tall—just around five-seven, probably—but she’s intimidating nonetheless. Hands on her hips, she says, “Static Man, just let him share the bed with you if you don’t want to sleep in the car.”

“My name! You said my name!”  
“No obfuscating,” she says. 

“Well,” Nicholas puts in, “I would be amenable to that if you are. I don’t want to force you to sleep in the car, Static Man.”

“Dude, it’s fine if I sleep there. Seriously.”

“No,” Nicholas says firmly.

“Hey. Aren’t you gonna ask me if I don’t mind?”

“Do you want me to ask you if you don’t mind?”

  
Static Man considers this for a minute. Really considers it, as if the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind until this moment. Finally, he lifts his not-chin and says, the whine of an overheated filament, white noise on a broken TV, “No. I don’t. I’m cool with it. And, like, you know I am.”

“I know you are,” Nicholas echoes.

At the top of the stairs, the Clerk tells them that it’s their turn to make breakfast in the morning. She walks down to her room, hands over her ears, as they both complain.

“I made dinner!” Nicholas says. “I used Chris’s mom’s recipe! That has to count for double points.”  
“Sometimes utensils fall through my body!” Static Man complains.

At this point, though, she’s in her room, and their protests fall on empty ears.

“So,” Nicholas says. One hand is on the doorknob. The other is white-knuckle grasping the head of his cane. He feels like he’s seventeen all over again.

“Dude. Do you want to go inside the room? Or are you planning on sleeping standing up?”

“I am not,” Nicholas says. “My powers don’t go that far.”

“Ha, ha,” Static Man says. He pushes past Nicholas, and Nicholas shivers.

The room’s a simple thing. Not very big, but not small enough to feel cramped. There’s one bed, relatively large, and it isn’t a waterbed, which is nice, because Nicholas needs some decent support for his back. He’s not sure if the Blacktop knew that, or if he somehow influenced the Blacktop to produce that, or if it’s all just a happy accident, but either way, he’s glad. There are a few pictures on the walls of things that aren’t exactly human and aren’t exactly creatures. There’s ugly wallpaper peeling from ugly walls, layers of forced change, layers of subjugation. There’s a bathroom with a shower and toilet and sink, and Static Man has a toiletry bag laid out on a little shelf below the bathroom mirror.

“Three toothbrushes?”

  
Static Man raises his not-hands in defense. “Hey, man. It expedites the process.”

“I can’t really argue with that.”

Static Man points to a spot in the corner. “You can drop your shit there, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I need any room for  _ my _ luggage, or whatever. All I have is that.” He gestures towards the bathroom. “Toothpaste’s in there too, obviously.”

Nicholas unpacks his stuff slowly. They’ll be here for twelve more days, give or take, so it doesn’t make sense to keep on living out of his suitcase for all of that time. And he’s not trying to be presumptuous by unpacking, because he’s sure that this room-sharing situation will be a one-time thing, but it’ll be a hell of a lot easier to not have to worry about running into the Clerk while she’s fixing his car and he just wants to root around the back seat for a Kashi bar if he keeps his stuff in the room.

While Static Man is in the bathroom brushing his teeth, Nicholas slips into a pair of sweatpants. He’s got his shirt unbuttoned and hanging off of his shoulders when Static Man comes back into the room.

“Static M—”

“Sorry, sorry!” Static Man says. “I’ll just. Uh. Turn my back.”

“I mean, it’s not like I have anything to hide,” Nicholas says. “Except for how painfully scrawny I am. But. Yeah. Thank you.”

“No prob!” Static Man says. He clicks his not-tongue cheerily, making not-finger-guns.

“Okay,” Nicholas says. “All good.”

Static Man spins around on one not-foot, casual as anything. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “Long day of doing nothing. Gonna just get straight to bed.”  
“Fantastic,” Nicholas says. “Great. Well. I’m going to brush my teeth now.” He prays that Static Man doesn’t see the pink Nicholas is sure is creeping up over the low collar of his oversized college shirt.

When he comes back into the main room, Static Man is splayed out across the bed, his not-body starfishing the mattress. The lights are out, and Static Man is silent, so Nicholas takes a pillow off of the bed and lays it on an open patch of floor. Before he can lie down and try to go to bed, though, he hears Static Man’s voice say his name.

“Yes?”

“Dude. You’re not sleeping on the fucking floor. The whole reason you’re here is to sleep on the bed. I can take the floor if you’re, like, not comfortable with this, or whatever, but you gotta take the bed.”

“I’m fine,” Nicholas says, waving him off.

“Uh, no, you’re not. I had to basically carry you to a chair tonight. You’re sleeping on the damn bed.” The mattress shifts, crackles, singes slightly at the edge. Static Man wraps one not-hand around Nicholas’s wrist and drags him to standing with absolutely no effort. The benefits of superhuman strength, Nicholas supposes.

“Thanks,” Nicholas says. He perches himself in the middle of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. “I didn’t realize my leg would be this bothersome.”

“I mean, you slept in a car’s backseat for five nights in a row, and it’s not like you’ve really been getting out and about and exercising and shit. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. Hell, I get it, and my Hebrew school teacher once told my parents that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Rachel and Leah even if they were unveiled.”  
Nicholas looks at him blankly.

“Little bit of Jewish humor there. Lost on your goy ass, I guess. Just means she thought I was unobservant,” Static Man laughs. “And, hey. She’s not, like, totally wrong. I’m a mass of static and teeth. Something obviously went wrong along the course of my life. I made some dumb choices. But telling you that you’re gonna sleep on this fuckin’ bed was not one of them. Now, goodnight.”

“Wait,” Nicholas says, half-surprised to hear the word coming out of his own mouth. “You can also sleep in the bed. We can just share. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Static Man says, raising a not-eyebrow. “Didn’t we have a talk about this  _ if you don’t mind  _ bullshit?”

“Old habits die hard,” Nicholas shrugs. He pats the mattress next to him. “Hop on up, then.”

Static Man does. He does, and Nicholas is so very aware of his presence just a few inches away. He’d assumed that he would be grateful for a bit of breathing room after days trapped in the car together, but he’s realizing that it isn’t the case. He needs Static Man like he needs his cane. Something to lean on, something to hold him up, something to make the going just a little bit easier. Something that came into his life because of magic and his father’s meddling and a messy knot in the thread of their fates, but something that’s become much more a boon than a burden. Something that Nicholas really can’t see himself ever going without.

“For what it’s worth,” Nicholas says, “I think your Hebrew school teacher was wrong. I don’t think you’re at all unobservant. I think you’re very observant. You get people. You got Chris. You’re getting the Clerk. You get me.”

Static Man shifts, turning his not-face towards Nicholas. His not-hair is spread out over the pillow, haloing his not-head. “Oh. Well, I mean, before you two, I didn’t really spend a ton of time with people, so I didn’t get any of them like that, and before I was all this, I was kinda super shitty and didn’t  _ want  _ to get people, so, I mean, sure. Yeah. And, besides, the Hebrew school teacher’s dead, so, like, doesn’t matter.”

“Did you kill her?” Nicholas inquires, curious, and finds that he wouldn’t be at all put off if Static Man’s answer were to be yes _. _

“Dude. No. What the hell.”

“I mean, I thought I should at least ask.”

“I did not kill her. She fell and broke her neck, or something. Ha. Must suck to have a neck!”

“It does,” Nicholas says. “I’m tense as all hell up there. And, Static Man, I swear to all that’s holy, if you dare say something about how it’s because I spent five fucking nights sleeping in the backseat of a car, I will forcibly—”

“Nah, you won’t.”

Nicholas blinks at him. “You don’t even know what I was going to threaten.”

  
“Yeah, but whatever it is, you’re not gonna do it.”

Nicholas blinks again.

“I  _ get _ you, remember?” Static Man winks one of his not-eyes, and Nicholas has to press his fingernails into his palms to calm himself down. “Alright. Well. G’night, then.”

“Goodnight,” Nicholas says back. He lies down and tries not to think about the slowly-swirling mass of static and teeth right next to him. He lies down and tries to go to sleep.

When Nicholas wakes, his legs and Static Man’s not-legs are tangled together. It’s like a forest of pins and needles covering the lower half of his body, but it’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling. In fact, Nicholas sort of likes it. 

Still, he should probably get himself sorted out before Static Man gets up, he thinks. He extracts his limbs slowly, carefully. It’s going fine, until it’s not, because static and stagnancy and cramps are not doing wonders for his bad leg, and he has to stop tugging on it to give it a bit of a massage.

And then Static Man wakes up. But he doesn’t wake up fully, because why would anything in Nicholas’s life be easy? He wakes up halfway, and he twists himself into a shape that’s certainly not human-shaped, and falls right back into the pillow. Except now his not-arm is draped around Nicholas’s waist and his not-body is pressed into Nicholas’s lower back and Nicholas is effectively trapped in a circle of Static Man.

He sits it out. There’s nothing else to do.

Static Man is not a still being. He never is when he’s awake, always playing air drums or tapping a foot or swirling slightly from side to side, but even in sleep, he moves. Nicholas can feel the blunt side of teeth brushing past his body, shocks of cold in the warmth of Static Man’s not-body. Once or twice, Nicholas is pricked. None of them are moving at a fast enough speed to cause any damage, though, and aside from the occasional stab, it’s not a bad experience. It’s like a blanket wrapped around Nicholas, a blanket that shifts ever so slightly with the seconds, a blanket that covers Nicholas in a comforting coat of energy.

Nicholas doesn’t place stock in much. He doesn’t place stock in material goods, unless they’re being used for a ritual. He doesn’t place stock in normal people, unless they’re… also being used for a ritual, usually. He places stock in ideas and in intellect, and he places stock in Christine Anderson. 

And he’s finding, more and more, that truly he places stock in Static Man. He values him, and, sure, part of that will probably always be utilitarian, but he wasn’t lying two years ago when he said he enjoyed him as a friend. He’s not lying to himself now when he thinks that he might like to be something more.

Static Man wakes up with a pop. “Hey,” he says blearily. “Nick– whuh– did you sleep sitting up?”

Nicholas laughs. “No. I got caught between a tooth and a static place when I tried to drag myself out of bed a few minutes ago.”

“I’m like a cat,” Static Man says. He uncoils himself from around Nicholas and stretches languidly, not-arms going up above his not-head in a smooth motion that Nicholas can’t help but track. “Sorry if I kept you confined to the bed.”

  
“Don’t worry about it,” Nicholas assures him. “It was only for a little bit. Ready to make breakfast this morning?”

“Shiiit,” Static Man groans. 

“We can do pancakes again.”

“Aw,  _ fuck  _ yes,” Static Man whoops, pumping a not-fist.

  
“You’re a child. You are a literal child. I’m going to get ready, so if you don’t have anything to do, if you don’t mind, you could go down and get started?”

“Teeth!” Static Man says. He whirls into the bathroom, and while he’s occupied, Nicholas scrounges together an outfit.

“So,” Static Man says once he’s out of the bathroom, “how was it waking up in my arms?”

“You don’t have arms,” Nicholas says.

“And you don’t kick in your sleep, which is good, and a lot more than I can say about the last person I slept with. Like, slept in the same bed with. Not, like, sex.”

  
“Yeah, I got that,” Nicholas assures him. “Just… pancakes.”

“Ten-four,” Static Man says. He gives Nicholas a not-salute and goes through the door with a scratch, fangs on wood.

Nicholas takes a long shower.

By the time he’s downstairs, Static Man is already fucking up a batch of pancakes. “Need my help with that?” Nicholas asks. 

“Please,” Static Man says, flashing a sheepish not-grin. “I just can’t get the hang of the flipping bit.”

“Here,” Nicholas says, taking the pan out of Static Man’s not-hands. As he does, their fingers brush, and Nicholas feels a lick of that delightful electricity nipping at his skin. “Watch.”

Nicholas is pretty fantastic at flipping pancakes. He’s not athletic in any regard, nor is he particularly physically coordinated, but he’s been making himself breakfast for far too long, so he’s gotten good at this. Static Man whistles his assent in the background.

He almost doesn’t notice the Clerk until she’s right behind him. She taps his shoulder, and he spins around, dropping a pancake mid-flip. 

“Good morning,” he says.

“Put a pot of coffee on.”

“Oh, sure. Uh, Static Man? If you don’t mind?”

“On it,” Static Man says, teeth clacking against each other as he spins away to where the coffee machine is half-working.

“Do I look less like shit this morning?” Nicholas asks.

The Clerk looks him up and down. Finally, she nods appraisingly. “Yes. I’m guessing you slept well?” The corner of her mouth quirks, and she flicks her eyes towards Static Man, and it’s a move that’s so painfully Christine that Nicholas wants to cry.

“Yes. Like a log.”

“Glad he didn’t keep you up,” the Clerk says. Before Nicholas can say anything to the contrary, she calls out to Static Man, “What are you doing with the coffee machine?”

“Um. Hitting it?”

“And why are you hitting it?”

“So that it works? Aw,  _ yes _ ,” Static Man says as the coffee machine starts to trickle out a stream of pitch-black liquid. “Guess we’re drinking tar for breakfast. Fuckin’ delish.”

Once they’re all seated around a plate of pancakes a few cups of coffee that look absolutely terrible and taste even worse, Static Man says, “So, Pops, how’s the Mach Five treating you?”

“ _ Speed Racer _ ?” The Clerk leans back in her chair, arms crossed.

“Hell yeah  _ Speed Racer _ . I always loved Spritle.”

“I’d say you’re more of a Chim-Chim,” the Clerk says. She laughs at Static Man’s outburst of sputtering. “Anyway. Same as the last time you asked, which was last night, in case you’ve already forgotten.”

“Man, I don’t know. Shit could have magically happened overnight. This world’s weird like that.”

“Do you have any suggestions for stuff we can do to pass the time?” Nicholas asks.

She shrugs. “Not really. Like I said, time’s different for me. I’ve never exactly had to pass it before. You can cook some more, I guess. You can see if the TV catches any channels, but I don’t think it will. Or, nothing comprehensible, at least.”

“Thanks anyway,” Nicholas says. “We’ll figure something out.”

They try to figure out a way to watch the one movie the car repair shop has, and they argue about Pokemon, and Static Man pretends that he isn’t reading Nicholas’s books. Hard to keep up that facade when Nicholas walks in on him sobbing his not-eyes out over  _ A Little Life _ , though.

Their days pass, for the most part, without consequence. They’re bored, yes, but they’re together, so the boredom never lasts for too long. Static Man always has some niche of nerd culture to debate, and Nicholas always has opinions on the repeating cycles of history, and they both find that those two concepts are not actually as separate as they initially assumed. And there’s the Clerk in the middle of it. Not exactly a mediator, but not exactly a fan to their flames. She’s a good touchstone, an anchor for when Nicholas and Static Man get a little too lost in each other.

They do cook, and Static Man gets better at flipping pancakes. The three of them debate music and morals and how, with magic, the lines between those two things are blurry at best. So while the sun’s out, Nicholas does okay.

It’s nights that are the hard part. Static Man decides that Nicholas absolutely has to sleep in the bed, lest he ruin his back and his neck and, of course, his leg. Nicholas decides that Static Man absolutely cannot subject himself to sleeping on the floor or in the back of the car. This means, of course, that Nicholas has to spend many more nights fretting over waking tangled up in Static Man’s not-body, and it means Nicholas has to spend many more nights with a shiver going down his spine whenever Static Man’s not-leg brushes against his own under the covers.

They always start out on opposites ends of the bed. They always end up meeting in the middle. It’s pathetically poetic, and as much as Nicholas absolutely hates it, he kind of loves it.

On what the Clerk says will likely be their final night based on the way the car’s looking, Nicholas and Static Man make dinner. She tries to tell them that she can do it, but they’ll hear nothing of it.

  
“It’s a thank you gift,” Nicholas says. “Please, let us.”

“I’ll steal your instrument if you don’t,” Static Man adds.

The Clerk sighs. “Good riddance to you two.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll miss your pissy attitudes and dramatic platitudes, too,” Static Man says. “Oh, hey. That rhymed. Sick. Now, shoo. Don’t you have car bits to fiddle with?”

“Why would you phrase it like that?” Nicholas sighs. 

Dinner is burgers. Adequately Americana enough for their setting, adequately simple enough to execute decently, adequately delicious enough to be a decent parting meal. Static Man flips them, and he doesn’t miss a single one.

“So,” the Clerk says, once they’re all digging in. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Hell yeah,” Static Man agrees. “One day closer to body time.”

“What are the parameters of that?” she asks. “Do you know what the body’ll look like? Does the ritual specify? Do you get to decide?”

“No to all of that,” Nicholas says. “You know how magic is. Too precise. Too imprecise. Wording is everything, and the wording here is a bit of a trip-up. We’ll see when we get there, I suppose.”

The conversation dies down pretty quickly. It’s difficult to eat a meal with someone knowing that it could quite possibly be the last one you have together, and Nicholas has never exactly been a gifted conversationalist. Not for the first time, he wishes Chris were with him.

“I’ll wash the dishes tonight,” the Clerk says. “No, look, you two made dinner. Let me have this. Just… just go to bed, alright?”

Static Man wraps his not-arms around her and pulls her close to his not-chest. “Thanks, dude. For everything, y’know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, voice muffled by the buzz of his not-skin. “You too.”

Static Man releases her and whirls up the stairs, a cacophony of background noise, each clank and hum a reminder that he exists. 

Nicholas steps towards the Clerk. “I’m not going to hug you,” he promises. “I just want to let you know that if you’ve changed your mind about anythi—”  
“No,” she says. “Thanks, but no. And you’ll ask me in the morning, or he will, and I’ll say no again.”

  
Nicholas spreads his hands wide. “I respect that. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I’m tired. I’m turning in,” she says, walking briskly by him, tilting her face from view. “Goodnight, Nicholas.”

  
“Goodnight, Clerk.”

By the time he drags himself to the top of the stairs, Nicholas can feel something building in his chest. Determination, maybe, or anger, or raw emotion.

“Hey,” Static Man says when Nicholas opens the door. “I just finished brushing my teeth, so bathroom’s free for you.”

Nicholas gets ready for bed in a bit of a haze. He feels something tugging at him, feels the inevitability of the end of this journey. Tomorrow, they’ll drive away. Tomorrow, they’ll be one day closer to Static Man being able to leave. Tomorrow… Nicholas has always fretted a bit too much about tomorrow. Chris always told him to appreciate the present more, and he’s never really taken her up on her advice. He thinks that maybe he should start now, but he also thinks that maybe that would be an astronomically idiotic idea.

He’s still deliberating on the benefits and downsides of being proactive when he slips into bed. Static Man is already sprawled across his half of it, body buzzing in a comfortingly ever-present wash of white noise.

“Yo,” Static Man says. “No cane on the bed. It’s like shoes. It’s just gross. It’s touched the ground, man.”

  
“I didn’t even realize I’d brought it up with me.” Nicholas drops it onto the floor with a _clunk_ , and Static Man gives him a confused look.

“Damn. Disrespecting it. What’s got you all hot and bothered?”

Nicholas sighs. “It’s just… we’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve liked staying here more than I thought I would.”

“No, me too,” Static Man agrees. “I mean, the Clerk’s obviously grown on me and shit, but it was nice to just… live. Like, life. I haven’t done that in over a decade, so, like, pretty neat.”

Nicholas hadn’t even thought about that. This was Static Man’s first taste of normalcy in far too long, and it was in a place made of the perversions of magic and willpower. 

“You’ll get it again soon,” Nicholas assures him. “That’s the end goal of this, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Static Man agrees. “Pretty dope! Pancakes! Kitchens! Sleeping! I forgot how much of being a person was spent being bored out of your fuckin’ mind. To be honest, I’m not super psyched for that part. And, I mean, it’s gonna be a drag to not be able to do this.”

He turns sideways, propping himself up on one not-arm. His not-body shifts in a waterfall of crackling energy, and he looks Nicholas in the eye. “Hello,” he says, voice a perfect imitation of Nicholas’s. “I’m Nicholas Waters, and I like to go on road trips to find bodies. I swear I’m not a serial killer!”

“I won’t miss that,” Nicholas says.

“Aw, I’m sure you’ll be fuckin’ bereft without my fun quirks,” Static Man laughs. He falls back downwards, not-body pooling out into an ocean of crackling gray cut through with bits of glinting white.

Tomorrow they leave. Tomorrow starts the beginning of the end. What does Nicholas have to lose?

Nicholas shakes out his shoulders, shakes out his bad leg, sets his jaw, and leans over on top of Static Man.

“Uh, hey,” Static Man says. “What’s up?”

“Can you even kiss me? Physically, I mean. Is that a thing that your body can do? Because if it is—”

Static Man answers by proving that, yes, he can kiss him, and Nicholas learns that, yes, he does like the feeling of his mouth set on fire.

A current of energy hums through Nicholas’s teeth, winds down his throat, glances over his tongue. There’s a pressure building behind his eyes, a warm sort of pressure that tickles. He feels one of Static Man’s not-fingers grazing over the hem of Nicholas’s shirt, feels the other not-hand wind its way through Nicholas’s hair.

Nicholas feels like he’s underwater. He feels out of control, and that’s a terrifying feeling, but he tries to lean into it. It’s not as if Static Man’s ever been the most predictable of beings, and Nicholas can’t help but admit that that’s part of his allure. 

Nicholas feels a not-hand find purchase on the front of his T-shirt, feels it pull him in and push him back. He goes flying off the bed, and it’s thankfully not too high off the floor, because he hits the ground hard.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he says emphatically. 

Static Man rushes over to the door and flings it open. It comes a little bit off its hinges, and he winces at that before shouting, “We’re all good up here, Clerk! If you heard a thunk! We didn’t break anything!”

“You might have just broken the door,” Nicholas mutters, rubbing at his leg. Static Man shoots him a dirty look, his not-eyes sharp.

There’s no response. 

“She’s probably out working on the car again,” Nicholas says. “Or asleep. Or she just doesn’t care.”

“Yeah,” Static Man agrees. “Uh. The door should be fine, I think.”

“If I want it enough, it’ll probably fix itself,” Nicholas says. “Or it’ll fix itself automatically as soon as the Clerk realizes it’s broken. Or as soon as the Blacktop realizes it’s broken.”

Before Nicholas finishes speaking, the door’s hinges straighten themselves out, and it swings shut with an easy  _ click _ .

“So,” Static Man says, shifting his weight from not-foot to not-foot.

“What the hell was that?” Nicholas demands, voice dangerously low.

“Uh. I thought you made a mistake?”

Nicholas blinks once, twice. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Or, like, I guess I thought  _ I  _ made a mistake. Can you stand? Do you need my help?”

Nicholas tries to get himself to his feet. It takes a moment, but he manages, despite the twinging running its way up one half of his body. “I’m alright, thank you. If you don’t mind, will you either grab me my cane or help me walk myself back to the bed?”

As if pulled by a string, Static Man appears by Nicholas’s side. He offers up a not-arm, and Nicholas grips it. His hand buzzes. His head spins.

“You didn’t make a mistake,” Nicholas assures him as soon as he’s sitting back on the bed. Static Man stands in front of him, a circle of teeth floating its way around his finger. “I literally asked you if you could kiss me, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but, like, you didn’t say  _ would _ . You weren’t all  _ hey, dude, wanna make out _ ? So forgive me for being a bit confused about it. You research types are like this. All that data-collecting shit.”

“So you’re saying I just want to experiment?” Nicholas asks, raising an eyebrow. “Come on. That excuse might have worked for you in college, but you decided that you’re going to be twenty-nine, didn’t you?”

  
“I could still be in college at twenty-nine,” Static Man argues.

“Not the point,” Nicholas says.

“Yeah, well. Anyway. I mean, you know I have a past of, like, fucking things up when it comes to getting with people, so if you wanna back out now, I’m not gonna fault you or anythi—”

  
Nicholas wraps an arm around the back of Static Man’s not-neck and pulls him into what passes as a kiss between a person and a partially incorporeal being. “Not backing out,” he says, and his lips tingle as they hit Static Man’s not-skin. “I’m a very powerful sorcerer, remember? I think I can handle the whisper on the wind.”

“That’s a lame-ass nickname,” Static Man says. He spills onto the bed, the weight of his not-body pressing Nicholas down until his head hits the shitty deflated pillow.

“What, very powerful sorcerer?”

  
“Shut up,” Static Man says. He kisses Nicholas again, kisses him until Nicholas can only half-feel his face, kisses him until Nicholas feels punch-drunk on electricity and affection.

Nicholas is pretty much completely trapped underneath Static Man, underneath his supernatural strength and the press of teeth against his bare skin, and he finds he doesn’t mind it. He trusts Static Man. He trusts him enough to feel powerless. And he knows that he’s not powerless, not ever, really, because he’s always got the ability to play the vassal card, but the thought doesn’t even cross his mind. He lets himself get lost in the buzz of Static Man, two men just a few steps removed from humanity colliding into each other in a supernova of goodwill and faith.

The next morning, Nicholas wakes up early. He wakes up with Static Man wrapped around him, and he realizes that he’ll miss waking up like this.

He tries to pull himself out of bed quietly, but it’s to no avail. His movement wakes Static Man, who shudders and clicks, teeth clattering against each other as he pulls himself into a more humanoid form.

“Good morning,” Nicholas says.

“Hey,” Static Man yawns. 

“Today’s the day we leave,” Nicholas says.

“Fuckin’ buzzkill,” is Static Man’s reply. “C’mon, man, can’t we fuckin’ bask or some shit? For, like, a minute? Or five?”

“You’re really calling me  _ man _ ?”

“Uh, yeah,” Static Man says. He sounds like he genuinely doesn’t understand why calling someone that you made out with  _ man  _ is a weird thing.

“Okay. Okay, well, I’m going to go get ready. If you don’t mind, you can help me pack up?”

“Dude, I never mind.”

“ _ Dude _ ,” Nicholas says to himself as he makes his way to the bathroom. “ _ Dude _ .”

The Clerk has already made breakfast for them by the time they get downstairs. French toast and bacon. Static Man makes some quip or another about religious guilt as he shovels the bacon into his not-mouth, but it’s hard to make out what he’s saying over the sounds of his eating. It’s like ice in a blender.

They do the dishes for a final time, and they do it in silence. Nicholas thinks that there’s a time for discussing the nature of their relationship, but now is not that time. Static Man, as always, is far from stagnant. He crackles with multi-colored light. If he had hair, Nicholas thinks it would probably be standing on end. If he had hair, Nicholas thinks he would like to run his hand through it.

The Clerk is waiting for them outside. Her instrument is tucked under her arm, and her jaw is clenched a bit too tightly. Her hair’s down. The slight breeze doesn’t blow it. She’s a solid thing, and Nicholas thinks that even if she doesn’t realize it, she’s always pushing back against the Blacktop. Always holding her own against a world that wants to warp her into something that she’s not. 

She remembers her name. She’s told them that she remembers her name, that even if she won’t speak it, she can remember the way it felt in her mouth. That has to count for something.

“Morning,” she says. She doesn’t look at them.

“Hey hey hey!” Static Man says. He swirls around her, a tornado of non-Euclidean eye strain. When he materializes again, he’s standing right next to Nicholas. Close enough that Nicholas can feel the hum of his not-body.

“So,” Nicholas says. “Today is the day.”

“Hopefully,” the Clerk says. “If I didn’t mess anything up.”

“You totally didn’t,” Static Man says.

“Seconded,” Nicholas agrees, but he can’t help himself from gripping the head of his cane a bit tighter. The Clerk doesn’t notice it—her eyes are fixed firmly ahead—but Static Man does. Of course Static Man does. Nicholas isn’t even affectionately surprised at this point, just affectionately grateful.

Static Man places a not-hand on top of Nicholas’s white knuckles. The thrum of electricity that races up his arm relaxes him, and he gives Static Man a small smile.

Static Man winks. 

“Ready when you are,” the Clerk says.

Nicholas hears the recorder on his arm click, sees the green light flashing. They’re broadcasting now, and though he knows it’s pretty random when the broadcasts begin and end, he feels his heart lift with a mix of hope and dread. The car will either work or it won’t. The rational part of him knows that he wants it to work, knows they should finish this ritual, knows Static Man’s body is on the line. The selfish part of him wishes he could have just one more normal day.

“And you’re sure we don’t need to do anything?” Nicholas double-checks. He feels uncomfortable with the entirety of the car’s wellbeing being in the hands of someone else. 

“No, just stand still and be as quiet as you possibly can,” the Clerk says. She looks at them for the first time this morning, shooting Static Man a pointed look that only seems half-sarcastic.

He gives her a mocking salute with the not-hand that isn’t buzzing against Nicholas’s skin. “Got it,” he says.

She shoots the two of them an aching smile, steps forward, and begins to play.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! kudos/comments always appreciated, and you can find me @ commaperson on twitter!


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